“I don’t care what happened at the Infinity Club meeting,” I say, reaching down with a shaking hand to pull the giant bandage off my hip. The infinity symbol with the slash through it shows, and several of the girls gasp. That’s when it hits me.
Maybe Isabella … is trying to get into the Infinity Club? I look past Harper again, but my little sister won’t look at me. The little sister I always wanted, that I dreamed about, that I asked after for years … and she won’t even look at me.
“Fuck the Infinity Club,” I tell Harper, raising my voice, so every student in that hall can hear me. Not that it matters anymore: there’s not a single person at the academy who doesn’t know about the Club—staff included. I know that now. “My friends tell me all I need to know.”
“Sure they do,” Harper says, flicking a look back at Tristan. “I’m sure Mr. Vanderbilt over here’s been a wealth of information.”
“You’d best keep that silicone plumped trap of yours shut, before I close it permanently,” Tristan growls, and there’s a darkness in his voice that makes me shiver. He sounds awful, a veritable well of hostility and neatly suppressed rage. It’s like all of that wild anger and hate inside of him as been honed down to a fine diamond’s point. Sharp, unbreakable.
“Did he tell you,” Harper starts, backing up into the sea of girls as Tristan takes a step forward. He very much looks like he’d enjoy hitting her. Instead, he adjusts the silver Burberry Prep crest cufflinks at his wrists. “Did he tell you,” Harper repeats, clearly enjoying herself as she glances my way, “that Lizzie actually made a bet with her parents? She’s free and clear of her engagement obligations now. Tristan … Lizzie, a match made in heaven. She can afford him the type of lifestyle he’s so used to living. Can you do that, Working Girl?” she asks, looking me dead in the face, her lips curved into a devil’s smile. No wonder Miranda used to call the Idols devils and the Inner Circle demons; it fits. “If you and Tristan ride off into the sunset together, can you give him the standard of living he’s accustomed to?”
“Harper,” Tristan says, reaching out. Becky and Ileana act like they think he’s going to hit her, and the other girls crowd forward like they’re willing to beat the shit out of both of us, here and now. I don’t doubt their ability; I was victim to it once before. “Stop being so jealous.” He curls strands of her red hair around his fingers, and she watches him with narrowed eyes. Clearly, she expects scissors. And rightfully so. “Here’s the thing: you’ve thoroughly pissed me off now. I mean, I thought you’d done it before, but kudos.” He yanks on her hair and jerks her forward, and she slaps him away with a scowl. “You’ve really and truly incited me.” He narrows his blade-gray gaze on her. “I’d rather be a charity case … I’d rather be a homeless fucking drunk than married to a speed-addicted whore with too much plastic surgery.”
“Takes one to know one,” Harper snaps back, acting like she’s not bothered at all by Tristan’s words. Watching them exchange blows is painful, like two sets of knives being thrown across the hall. I can’t take it. “How many girls did you sleep with during first year? Two dozen? Three dozen? More?”
Tristan grits his teeth and opens his mouth, but I’m already stepping between the two of them.
“No bullying,” I tell him, looking into his eyes, “not even toward her.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps, but I mean it. I intend to be queen here, even over the king. I’ve made up my mind. The boys might be the muscle behind my rise to social power at Burberry Prep, but they’re too cruel to rule on their own.
“Not even toward her. Let’s go.” I take off down the hall, pausing just once to glance back and look at Isabella. “And if you have to do this Infinity Club thing, there are other sponsors, you know.” I turn back around and take off, and surprisingly enough … Tristan follows.
“You’re going to wish you’d never met me—either of you,” Harper calls out from behind us, but I’m done with her. “You’re going to fucking bleed for this!”
Tristan and I take off down the hall, but when I reach for his hand, he pulls away. His face is tight and dark, like thunderclouds have rolled over his expression. He won’t look at me.
“Are you angry because I stopped you from retaliating?” I ask, but he just briefly glances my way. Dressed in his fourth year uniform, he’s intimidating as fuck, I’ll admit that. Doubly so when we step outside and he pens me against the wall.
“What do you think about what she said, about Lizzie?” I blink back at him, breathing in his cinnamon and peppermint smell, my heart bouncing around inside my chest like a kid in a blow-up castle.
I look to the side, toward the waiting cars that’ll take us out to the football field.
“I think … what Lizzie did to free herself of an unwanted engagement and take control of her own destiny is admirable.”
“Right.” Tristan clacks his teeth together and pushes up off the wall, crossing his arms over his chest and lording over me in a way that makes me want to squirm. Well, it’s true, I think, but I know I’m pretty much bullshitting myself. My current urge is to excuse myself to my dorm, so I can punch something soft and fluffy—preferably that new pink feather pillow with the fur on it that says Princess that Windsor got me for my birthday (I hate it by the way, and I’m pretty sure he knew I would). “You think it’s admirable how hard Lizzie Walton is fighting to be with me?”
“It takes courage to fight for one’s love, particularly in the face of adversary,” I continue, and Tristan makes this choking sound in his throat which somehow still manages to sound aristocratic and elegant. What do I know? Maybe being born of such a long and distinguished line really does make his blood blue? If I were to make a noise like that, I’d sound like a coughing donkey.
“Fight for one’s love … huh?” His voice trails off, and he scowls, turning away and cursing under his breath. I take a step forward, my hand reaching out and then dropping by my side. I want to tell him … that I’m jealous as all get-out, that I don’t like knowing Lizzie fought so hard to get past her parents’ objections because that means that now, she’s got a clear shot to him.
“The lifestyle he’s accustomed to …” I start, watching as Tristan pauses next to one of the waiting limos and turns around to look at me. He crosses his arms over his chest and raises both dark brows in question. I start to move forward, but slowly, as the thought dawns on me.
Even if Tristan and I both got into Bornstead (we will, considering one of us is going to be valedictorian and the other salutatorian—I better be the former) and worked our asses off, got good degrees and even better jobs, it’s likely he’d never live the Vanderbilt lifestyle again. The best he could really hope for is upper middle-class.
What if that’s a deal breaker? What if I’m holding him back?
Aaaaand, there it is. You’re letting Harper win, letting her get to you. This is exactly the sort of poison dart she meant to throw.
Exhaling and squaring my shoulders, I take off toward the limo and climb in.
When Tristan gets in behind me, I scoot right onto his lap, grab his face in my hands and kiss him.
The sensation of our mouths touching is sharp, almost painful, like he’s cutting me with a knife and making me bleed, but then healing me right after. Pain, pleasure. Sharpness, soothing. A dichotomy. Tristan Vanderbilt’s mouth, much like Zayd Kaiser’s tattoos, is a warning.
I’m hot and wild, and desperate for your touch … but stay away from me or you’ll taste my venom.
With a groan, I pull away from him, and he looks at me like I might be the most confusing thing he’s ever encountered in his entire life.
“I hate football games,” he tells me, but he lets me pull him out of the car anyway, leaving me only when I’m safely deposited next to Coach Hannah.
The Mess is fairly quiet, and we don’t have any showdowns at the high table like we did last year. Turns out Harper has carved a new niche for herself in the rear courtyard. Fine by me. I’d rather not
battle over chicken cordon bleu with garlic mashed potatoes and roasted zucchini, thank you very much.
I pick at my plate and wonder about Isabella, if she really is my full sister like Harper is claiming, if she’s mixed up in Infinity Club bullshit already. I’ve asked the boys, but they all swear they have no idea, that if she is being sponsored by one of the Harpies, they don’t know about it.
“I haven’t heard anything,” Lizzie says, handing her plate up to waiter when he stops by. I send him with mine as well, even though I didn’t eat much. I’m too distracted, and all the boys (plus Miranda) are busy right now, so … it’s just me and her.
To say it’s awkward as hell would be an understatement. We’ve been back at school for several weeks now, and Lizzie and I only talk in group settings really.
I guess it’s hard to be friends when you’re both after the same guy. That makes me sad somehow, like girl power should extend beyond that. Girl code would dictate that Lizzie not go after Tristan at all, right? Not after you and him started dating. But I can’t begrudge her for her feelings, so I look up and try to make myself smile.
“If I could just get Isabella alone somehow …” I trail off and nibble at my lower lip. “The thing is, she’s always surrounded by Harpies or Company a-holes.” The hidden big sister gene inside of me flares to life, and I so desperately want to warn Isabella away from those guys. None of them are good for her. Then again, you’re dating five of the biggest assholes in school, so how can you really talk?
Dating five guys.
I’m an … interesting role model, surely.
I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with it if we’re all consenting adults, but I can’t get past the idea of the boys also dating multiple girls. I would hate it. I wouldn’t be okay with it. I … I’m a big, fat hypocrite.
Putting my hands over my face, I lean my elbows on the table and sigh.
“Are you angry with me?” Lizzie asks after a few moments, and I glance up, meeting her amber eyes. She was there for me at the lodge when I needed her; she’s helped me defend myself against the Infinity Club this whole time. How can I really be mad? “I mean, about Tristan and everything.”
Of course she’d have to add that. When she says his name, I …
“You can’t help who you love,” I say, tucking my hands into my lap. Lizzie nods, but she doesn’t look convinced.
“No, you can’t, can you?” Her voice gets soft, and she closes her eyes like she’s fighting against some sort of inner pain. I watch her for a moment, until she opens her gaze again and looks at me. “Do you know why Tristan’s dad hates me so much?”
I perk up a bit at that.
“Actually, no.” I pause, picking up my iced tea and holding it between my palms, waiting for her to elaborate.
“One of the Vanderbilt’s biggest debtors … is my family. They owe us nearly a billion dollars.” My mouth drops open and Lizzie shrugs. “My parents don’t want me with him because they don’t want his family benefiting from our money. That, and I guess they’d feel weird going after a family member for an outstanding debt. That’s all it is; it all comes down to money. But finally, finally, I got them to make a bet I could win.” She smiles, but I’m guessing she isn’t going to tell me what that bet was. The thing is, from what I’ve learned about the Infinity Club, it’s all about making the macro, micro, about compressing the big, wide world of money and politics, religion and economics, and making it work on a smaller scale.
Fortunes are won and lost in the Infinity Club.
Lives are ruined.
Allies are forged.
It’s a double-edged sword.
And frankly, it scares the shit out of me.
I’m a pawn in a much bigger game. A much, much bigger game.
“My parents lost, so they had to listen to me plead Tristan’s case. They had to consider him. He has a good bloodline, so …” She shrugs, but I already figured all of this out based on what Harper told me. I don’t need to know anymore. “Basically, we’d make pretty babies.” She flushes and tucks some of her hair behind her ear before looking up at me from under long eyelashes. “I hate to pry, but have you and Tristan …?”
My cheeks flush, and my mouth opens but no sound comes out. I close my lips and shake my head.
“Not yet.” Somehow, it sounds like I emphasized the word yet, even if I didn’t mean to.
“I see.” Lizzie says, and then she stands up, tucking her pleated black skirt under her thighs. “Shall we go find Tristan then? I’m pretty sure he’s in the physics lab working on a project.” I nod and follow her out, even though that doesn’t sound like the greatest way to spend an afternoon.
Tristan is, indeed, in the physics lab when we head over there, but he barely talks to either of us. Actually, he looks sort of pissed off when we walk in together.
“Did you two get tired of holding hands, skipping, and making daisy chains?” he asks sarcastically, and I notice he’s making a critical error with the formula on the paper next to him. I bite my lip and raise up on my toes, lifting the heels of my shiny black shoes off the floor.
“Just inside the parentheses, it’s actually one plus two times h times v to the third power.” Tristan pauses and looks up at me, his eyes practically glowing silver.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he growls as I grit my teeth.
“I mean, like no …” I gesture randomly at his paper as Lizzie looks back and forth between us, tucking dark hair behind her ear and forcing a laugh. “You literally wrote to the fourth power, and—”
“Get the fuck out of my classroom,” he snarls at me, but I’m sorry. I’m not about to walk away and just let him screw up the equation like that.
“You see, v is the frequency being observed and—”
“I know v is the frequency,” Tristan throws back at me, his fingers clenched so tightly around the pencil that they’re shaking. “And I know it’s to the third power. This is a typo.”
“How is it a typo when you’re writing with pencil?” I ask, and he seriously looks at me like he wants to kill me.
“I have literally no idea what you guys are talking about,” Lizzie adds with another giggle, reaching over to run her fingers down Tristan’s bare forearm. He’s taken his blazer off, and in a rare move, he’s unbuttoned his shirt until about halfway down. He’s even rolled up his sleeves a bit.
He glances over at her, but he doesn’t tell her to stop, turning back to look at me in stark defiance.
“You little smart-ass. You think you’re so knowledgeable with your public school education.”
“Clearly, I am,” I retort, lifting my own chin in defiant response. “Because I can see the frantically scrawled page of notes beneath your report. You’ve been messing the formula up this entire time. How do you expect to beat me out for valedictorian when you can’t even get the equation for the brightness temperature of the sun—”
Tristan sweeps his arm across his papers and knocks them all to the floor, panting furiously, teeth gritted at me in a snarl.
“Tristan, don’t, she’s just trying to be helpful,” Lizzie says, attempting to step between us. The look he gives her is cold hell.
“Get out,” he says, and she gapes at him. She glances back at me once, sympathetically, before scurrying out and closing the door behind her. I turn back to look at Tristan, but I’m not afraid of him, not anymore. He’s just a damaged boy with a cruel streak. I … shouldn’t want to hold him close and banish his darkness, but I do.
Fuck me, but I do.
I’ve fallen for the good girl fixes the bad boy stereotype.
I need to take more women’s studies classes at Bornstead. Because I will get in. I will. I absolutely will.
“Who the hell do you think you are,” Tristan whispers, his voice like freezing fog off the bay. His eyes are the same color, like a stormy sky above the ocean. He moves toward me, putting us so close that the toes of our shoes touch. “Coming in here like that, and getting all mou
thy with me.”
“Whoever heard of the king of the school being a brainiac, hmm? Your stereotypes are all messed up. Then again, you got the equation wrong, so—”
Tristan grabs me around the waist and pushes me against the counter so fast that my head spins, positioning himself behind me so he can press his hardness against the curve of my ass. Considering I’m wearing the shortest skirt known to man, all I can do is moan as he reaches around and cups my left breast. With the other hand, he slides the pencil horizontally between my lips, so that I’m biting down on it.
“To stifle your screams,” he whispers, and then his right hand dives down and under my skirt, teasing me and making me moan. The pencil really does help when I clench my teeth around it. “You’re too smart for your own good. It drives me nuts.”
I spit the pencil out, and it bounces across the soapstone counters, bumping up against a silver propane faucet.
“Clearly, it does more than just that,” I manage to whisper as Tristan exhales against my ear, rubbing against me. He’s so close to breaking, so damn close. I want him inside of me so badly. I hate that he’s been with other girls and not me. I hate that he’s been with Lizzie. The thought makes me sick. “You like it when I’m a smart-ass.”
“You’re so infuriating,” he whispers, nuzzling against me. “I don’t understand you and your mentality at all. You don’t like money, and you don’t care about status. You memorize ridiculous formulas, and you defend monsters like Harper du Pont. Who are you, and where did you come from?”
“Marnye Elizabeth Reed, from the wrong side of the tracks,” I say, and Tristan yanks me even harder against him. He’s going to be difficult to handle, I imagine. He might be dark in the bedroom. I don’t care. I seriously don’t care. “At your service.”
In the Arms of the Elite Page 11
